


Blood

by SeverinadeStrango



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Akechi Mitsuhide is His Own Warning, Blood, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Manipulation, Self-Harm, Self-Sacrifice, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 13:18:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17101319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeverinadeStrango/pseuds/SeverinadeStrango
Summary: It's the little things.





	Blood

His head buzzing with every step that he took, Mitsuhide pushed forward, his hands clutched around the little cup so hard that his knuckles were white, the contents sloshing precariously at the rim. The hallway seemed so long – it wasn’t like this yesterday, surely. He wondered if it had been extended, perhaps – but that was ridiculous, surely it couldn’t have happened in such a short period of time without his noticing. It was by _luck_ that Matsunaga found it within him to take pity on him, and to open the door at the very end – a beacon of light for Mitsuhide’s tunneling vision.

“Matsunaga-dono,” he murmured, his lips numb, dragging his disobedient feet over the threshold. “Matsun-a-ga-do-no, for _you.”_ He pushed his hands forwards. It felt like hefting stone blocks. He refused to drop the cup. He refused. This was for him, for the one who had shown him such kindness, for the one that had, for some reason, stayed his hand and his blade despite his pleading cries. 

“What is _this,_ Mitsuhide?”

“Take it – “

“Tell me.”

 _“Take_ it!” 

Mitsuhide shook with the force of his own words, and then a splash of the cup’s contents, thick and dark and _red,_ fell into Matsunaga’s lap. 

There was a beat of silence, and then Matsunaga slapped the cup out of his hands, and the blood – already partially congealed – splattered grotesquely over the floor. Matsunaga’s hand came down, hard, around Mitsuhide’s wrist, and he yanked him forwards. 

“Did he make you do this?”

“No.”

“Would you have done it?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

Mitsuhide pressed his lips together, bloody and cracked, and his forearm felt the same way. Matsunaga caressed the edges of the torn flesh as one would the face of a lover, and Mitsuhide collapsed forwards into his lap with a haggard wail. He didn’t need to show Matsunaga anything – he already knew, he already knew _everything._ Matsunaga was forcing his hand up, bending his wrist, looking at the torn flesh and dried blood beneath his jagged nails, and for a moment, Mitsuhide thought that he was about have his nails ripped right from their beds like a tamed beast. 

Instead, Matsunaga reached down and pulled Mitsuhide into his lap, laving at the fresh wounds with his tongue, shushing him, whispering meaningless words. You no longer have to do this, he said, knowing that Mitsuhide wanted to more than anything else. I am not him. It felt like a cold stab. And yet he responded to the pain anyways – he felt his body thrum just as it had back then. It was almost enough to be familiar, but not quite enough to provide relief – it was with painful sobs that he rubbed himself against Matsunaga’s leg until he came and even then it seemed that this was not to end. 

Hours later and he was still there. Matsunaga was petting him idly, like a cat, and the wounds had partially scabbed over. He could feel the tears steadily rolling down his face, and yet he himself remained unaffected. Matsunaga was not Nobunaga-kou, that much was clear – but from time to time, what harm was there in pretending?


End file.
